


The Incision Point

by Radioluminescence



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mech Preg (Transformers), Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Past Sexual Assault, Tragedy, Transformer Sparklings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24771568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioluminescence/pseuds/Radioluminescence
Summary: The first sparkling since the beginning of the four million year war is delivered on Delphi, to the shock of the three medics stationed there.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 67





	1. First Aid

**Author's Note:**

> The endnotes of every chapter will have a comprehensive run-down of its contents, in case you need to check in advance. Stay safe, and feel free to ask questions if necessary!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty tame, but content warnings will go up with chapter two.

One look at the state of their newest arrival and First Aid’s fuel tanks request access to complete a purge. 

Prowl sends a six mech escort to see to it that there are no complications during travel. They meet First Aid on the landing pad and hand him a diagnostics report as they begin to disengage the safety locks on the transport vehicle. Before Ambulon arrives to key in security clearance or Pharma can schedule an emergency operating room, First Aid sees their patient. He’s linked up to a mobile life support device they wheel in with him; an amalgamation of wires and energon lines that are now just a continuation of his body.

The normal procedures would call for them to order testing and intubate the patient as they check for energon pressure and any existing conditions. None of that is obeyed, as Pharma emerges from the primary hub’s east entrance and meets them half-way during transport, fresh from the washracks after his last procedure. From there, he makes a few adjustments to protocol; first by placing the lower paramedic team in charge of the ward and then admitting Fortress Maximus to his care for immediate surgery.

First Aid is a member of the small team that is given the assignment, though the responsibilities that Pharma delegates to him don’t go beyond timekeeping, hooking their patient up to monitors, and relaying the contents of Fortress Maximus’ file as they secure a central line. Ambulon is there too; running a foreign body scan to speed the process. It would normally be a task for First Aid, but his quick-response time has been numbed by the sight of the injuries he’s supposed to be treating. He’s more than happy for the support now.

The preliminary tests that the field medics conducted rule out brain death, but Pharma’s mind leaps to permanent spark damage, which would dampen his medical prognosis. In support of his theory, he enters examination mode, ordering First Aid to hose out the dried energon, debris, and noxious odours from inside the grooves of Fortress Maximus’ armour so that Ambulon can conduct the ultrasound. Instead of stewing, First Aid forces himself to be grateful that he’s not confronted with the up-close images of hemorrhaging, stealing away a few seconds so that he may compose himself.

It’s one of the rare instances where Ambulon’s past experiences, both as a Decepticon and a medic, hardens him in the face of such tragedy. Maybe that’s why he’s operating by Pharma’s side for a change, able to carry out procedures with ease, unaffected by what would squeeze the fuel pump of a mech twice his size and his age. He might be the only medic here that wouldn’t heave at the sight of the warden now.

Speaking of whom: to see such a proud spark reduced to a few nucleon lines and bullet holes is haunting. That horror does not fade, not even when First Aid is trying to suture wounds with shaking hands. One look down is all it takes for static to pump into his vision. The stumps where there should be arms and legs combined with the mouth widened in a never-ending scream make it feel as though he’s experiencing a bad data purge, and the images may very well accompany him to his recharge slab tonight.

Once vitals are double-checked and minor wounds are disinfected, Pharma engages the manual release on Fortress Maximus’ chest plate. From there, he has to pull both halves apart to reveal a spark casing desecrated by bullet holes. Around the edges of the plating, the warped metal is bending inwards, towards the spark. In order to minimize the risk, Pharma must first surgically remove those parts. He hands the cut pieces to First Aid, who arranges them on a tray that he then puts to the side.

When he returns, Pharma has his magnifiers on, stretched to the largest diameter possible. Ambulon is beside him, moving as though he’s one of Pharma’s surgical instruments. To give Pharma the most freedom possible, Ambulon has crossed to the other side of the operating slab to hold Fortress Maximus’ casing in one hand, the other fingers probing the protective tissue that’s since been cut.

Pharma’s reaction to seeing Fortress Maximus’ spark is outside of the ordinary: he rears back, wings jumping out of their normal configuration, which would see them pinned behind his back. For someone as aloof as Pharma, it’s not very reassuring.

And yet, it’s not alarm that paints Pharma’s face in such unknown colours. It must be something a lot more insidious than that to rob the mech of his tall posture and squinted optics.

“Ambulon, get him off of the nucleon feed immediately,” says Pharma. Against the room’s dark backdrop, First Aid can see the tips of his wings tremble.

“What?” asks Ambulon, without his usual polite tone.

“He’s supporting a second spark,” says Pharma.

“That’s impossible.”

“Evidently not. Get him off now.”

“Yes, sir. First Aid?” 

As Ambulon slides the needle out, First Aid disables and then loops the feed around one arm. He tries to look over Ambulon’s arm to see what Pharma could be looking at, but his boss’ shoulder vents block most of it out. The light from Fortress Maximus’ spark--dim and pale gray--bathes the room with its glow. It dulls out the medics’ red plating with the touch of death.

First Aid nears, pressing his arms close to his sides so that he doesn’t take up space.

“Are you implying that he’s sparked, Pharma?” he asks, his voice burdened with something hoarse. The thought, once incomprehensible to imagine, rests on the medical slab in front of him.

“Implying? I couldn’t be more clear.” Pharma sounds like himself but looks the part of a stranger as he checks the nearby monitors. His hands, once so fluid at the point of incision, are locked on the side rail, resting just above the control panel.

“But how could this happen? Anti-carrying protocols are active; he got the clamps, just like everyone else,” says First Aid.

“I don’t have time to guess. I have to deliver it. It’s unstable in this body.”

Ambulon steps into his vision. “You want us to deliver the spark now?”

“Yes, now! Don’t just stand there; clear a CR chamber for me and fill it to half-capacity. First Aid, I need you to hook up an energon converter for later.”

“Where do I--”

“In the medical laboratory,” he says, his voice lacking patience.

Ambulon clips First Aid with his shoulder as he walks past, delivering him out of his thoughts. From there, it’s a mad scramble to find the materials Pharma is asking for). A quick trip down the hall produces the energon converter: a rickety old thing that still has some charge banked. For good measure, he brings ice packs back with him too. Not for the sparkling, but for its carrier.

By the time he gets back, they’ve ceased giving Fortress Maximus intravenous fluid, which grays out his colours. Pharma stays by his patient's side, selecting a pair of tongs that he sprays down with disinfectant. Ambulon joins him in a minute, murmuring something low into Pharma’s audio receptors and then backing away. It’s only because they’re unable to use internal comms. that First Aid catches the intimate moment at all.

He too keeps his distance, content to give Pharma the space he needs to work with. If the ward manager’s bulging optics give any indication, Ambulon is just as surprised as him with the turn of events. And, if he’s reading from the same internal medical database as First Aid is, just as helpless. Any documents that use the word sparkling cushion it with the past tense and an abundance of theory. If not that, it’s out-of-date talk. Ineffective. Not something they can operate on out of blind faith.

Luckily, Pharma is able to proceed without their help, first checking to see that Fortress Maximus’ bypass systems are functioning normally before he approaches the exposed spark and begins to pull.

Electricity shoots out and the monitors begin to blare. Both he and Ambulon jump into action, pinging a manual command to shut down the warden’s internal fans so that they don’t tax his already weak body. Internal temperature regulation is accomplished by the life support machines. Pharma matches their urgency by pulling at the second spark until it reveals a thin strand of energy that attaches it to the host body. With one clean slice, the two are separated.

Now in the mandibles of Pharma’s tongs, an unstable and small spark. Pharma holds it at arms lengths away from himself as he walks it to the CR chamber Ambulon has prepared. Once submerged, the whole room can vent a sigh of relief. The spark palpitates, only smoothing out into a rhythm once it’s habituated to its new environment.

First Aid waits for the truth of what they’re looking at to knock him over the side of the head and invite that fridge horror into his mind. It feels as though there are signal dampeners implanted into his sensory net. Though he’s able to carry out orders, he moves like an automated machine from the computer central.

The young spark is left to deep code as its carrier once again becomes an issue of concern. Any plans of theirs to repair Fortress Maximus’ internal framework so they can begin replantation are put to an early end. Instead, they give him an increased charge to run off of so his spark can begin to recover. Once his condition is stable, all that’s left to do is give him time. He has that now. It’s become more than just a life sentence.

But even with his innards cleaned of crusted energon and flaky paint, the mech’s body has been hollowed out. Did he even know he was carrying? Would the thought of it have brought him more pain? He has to shake those thoughts out of his helm in order to concentrate, but just because they’re pushed aside doesn’t mean they vanish completely. They pick at the back of his processor even as he labours to save his patient’s life now.

While Ambulon is tasked with helping get things back into working order, First Aid is pulled aside by Pharma. Although his first thought is that he’s about to be reprimanded for unprofessional conduct, all it takes is one look at Pharma’s crumpled expression for it to become readily apparent that his behaviour in the ward is one of the last things on his boss’ mind right now.

“I want you to prepare a pediatric ward.” Pharma tilts his head toward the door. “Now that the spark’s removed, it’s going to grow into its frame quickly. I’d prefer to have everything in one place.”

“Do--” he resets his vocalizer, “--do you have a room preference?”

“The abandoned general medicine ward will do fine, thank you.” Pharma’s voice closes out with a hum. He looks to be deep in thought as he watches the CR chamber’s lights blink blue and red with affirmative codes. 

Following Pharma’s instruction, he’s able to scrounge up a few thermal blankets and optical ointment to be put to use. He tints the window glass to keep the room shaded and private. A circuit slab designed for minibots will be its crib, once he raises the two side rails. It won’t be able to do the job an incubator must but that's where a little improvisation with the blankets kicks in.

Other than those bare necessities, there isn’t much he can give it. His meagre offerings are made worse by the room’s size: it could house twice their number of active cases, as it did during the most bloody days of the war. A lone drain back behind the walled up storage unit is all it takes to remind First Aid that this room was the last that many saw, now repurposed to be a nursery. The irony is not lost on him.

Sparklings were a casualty of war, though not in the traditional sense. Birth rates plummeted even before Cybertron’s Clampdown and the war was the finishing blow. What military facility would be built to accommodate such a rare phenomenon? Delphi, though it predates the war, mimics the same cold sentiments. No wonder Pharma asked him to prepare a room--it never had a pediatric ward to begin with.

He dusts the top of each surface and drapes a blanket over the slab, folding the rest at the foot of it. After a short deliberation, he initiates the ventilation system to air out the room. With that, he’s officially out of things to do. His shot at interior decorating looks very second-hand but it’s the best they’re going to get in a place like this. It’s not like the sparkling will have the functioning capacity to wonder why the floor’s stained with a pink tinge.

He heads back to the operating wing only to find Ambulon out by the doors, his back pressed to the wall. It’s one of the few times his posture is straight, showing just how tall he can be when he isn’t slouching over patient files or ordering clearance codes for the staff. 

It’s an uncommon look for him, and First Aid gives him an odd look as his way of asking for an explanation.

“I’ve never seen a sparkling before,” says Ambulon. He swallows nothing but his own oral solvent. When he talks, his voice is breathy, as though he’d just been running.

“I guess that makes sense.”

“What about you?”

First Aid looks down the hall at the operating theatre. Light streaks out through the narrow gap beneath the shut doors. “They weren’t my area of expertise. Even around the time I was forged, there were less of them. Maybe a few times when I worked in Polyhex?”

“Ah. Pharma’s probably going to ask for you then, once we clear this up with High Command.”

“High Command doesn’t know?”

“They’re about to find out. Who knows what happens then.” His shoulders slump. “Pharma’s already all antsy about things.”

“It sounds like one of those situations where Prowl’s just going to intervene and transfer it to the care of someone else.”

“That’s the thing: transfer it to  _ where? _ Even if--best case scenario--it doesn’t need around-the-clock medical supervision, I can’t imagine there’s a safe place left on Cybertron to care for it.”

“I can think of a few places. The planet Messatine isn’t on that list. For obvious reasons.”

Ambulon dry chuckles, his face stricken. “Don’t get me thinking about that. The poor thing’s survival odds are in the gutter already.”

First Aid dims his visor. “It’s that bad?”

“Pharma was saying that the surgery did it no favours, though it’d be just as bad if we didn’t do anything either. It’s just a shit situation all-around.”

“Yeah. Well, at the risk of sounding insensitive, is there anything else I can do for you here?” The quick change in topic is enough to make him wince, but it’s more of a favour for Ambulon. The ward manager looks more uncomfortable with each passing minute.

“I don’t think so. Pharma’s off shooting calls, so he’s not talking to me.” What would normally provoke annoyance now makes Ambulon look pensive. “You should take a break though. You looked ready to offline when they brought Max in.”

“Yeah, he’s--it’s bad.” He rolls his shoulders back, an audible clack sounding as the plating shifts.

“I know. Do what you need to. I’ll page you over the comm. if I need anything.” Ambulon lightly pats him on the shoulder, transitioning the gesture into a push once he’s said his piece.

First Aid follows the momentum through, walking toward the break room. He can’t stomach the idea of fuel right now, but neither can he think much about the circumstances that have done more damage to a life than a shot to the spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: First Aid is severely distressed by the sight of Fortress Maximus' injuries. There's also the delivery of a premature child from a comatose patient.


	2. Pharma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings go up! As always, the end notes will clarify the added tags. To all those who commented and read the previous chapter: you have my thanks for your support!

The protoform develops over a period of a month. Aided by nanite transfusions and a bit of luck, it beats out his initial prognosis.

It’s going to be a tank, he’s certain. A dark blue and black tank, much like Fortress Maximus himself. There are two tiny buds on its back where its treads will grow, once it starts to develop its armour. It will take after its carrier in size too: compared to the birth weights of sparklings conceived before the war, this one is large. It’s at least twice the size of an average child of the same age.

And yet, there is evidence of the sire as well. Pharma watches as a pair of finials develop, fanged and tall. They don’t quite resemble the large flaps that members of the House of Maximus have. That, and the presence of much-too large shoulders and white accents where there should be black. There are a few common elements that he can’t help but notice, though he only goes so far as to document them for later use. He could draw his own conclusions, but he has First Aid to do that for him.

“Do you think the infused ununtrium will transfer to the sparkling’s coding?” says First Aid. A dash of hesitance dusts his words, as if he’s been mulling them over for quite some time.

Pharma looks up from the report he’s authorizing. Somehow, the break room feels emptier than it did a few moments prior. “Pray tell, what makes you bring that up?”

“I think it’s something we should consider.” He pauses. “Sir.”

Pharma discards the datapad in his hand. He places his elbow on the table, leaning his chin on his outstretched palm.

“It’s baseless speculation, that’s all,” he answers First Aid.

“You two talking about Max?” Ambulon asks, raising his voice to be heard where he’s standing over by the energon dispenser. 

“No, keep your voice down.” Pharma pulls his shoulders back. “And please use his full name.”

Ambulon walks up beside him, warmed cube in hand. “Fine. The sparkling, then? Any updates?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“I’m just wondering what impact the sire will have on its CNA. I think, given what he’s been through, it could have repercussions,” says First Aid, overlapping Pharma’s reply. 

A surge of anger rocks through his body, though neither of his employees appear to notice.

“Who? What are you talking about?”

A few flicks of light in his visor betrays First Aid’s worry. “Don’t make me say it.”

The static that’s crisping Pharma’s audio feed grows louder. He tries to reset them to clear it, only to find it more prominent than ever. It leaves him unable to decipher Ambulon’s reply.

He smacks his hand down. A few of his stacked reports and photographs fall over. “Enough. This is irrelevant and I don’t want to hear it.”

Ambulon startles at the noise and takes a step back. Failing to read the room, First Aid pursues the topic with the tilt of his head.

“But Pharma, should we be worried? Something like this shouldn’t even be able to happen. Is it because he’s warborn?”

“It happened because his contraceptive fasteners had lesions all over them,” Pharma snaps. “There was intense trauma to his spark casing. It wouldn’t have protected him during a merge.”

The room’s atmosphere changes; the life is suctioned out of it.

Ambulon finished his cube with an audible gulp. He walks it over to the sink, giving it a quick rinse that would not pass inspection, and then places it in the drying rack.

“Well, this has been nice. I’m going to go,” he says.

Pharma looks down. “Fine, go.”

Ambulon’s hurry is not without suspicion. He almost clips Pharma’s left wing with how fast he’s moving. First Aid turns to watch the door seal behind him, his engine a low but steady growl. 

Pharma presses two fingers into his optics, trying to clear the smudges that are causing his vision to blur. It does nothing; the noise that pollutes his surroundings must be coming from within.

He feels cold. As in, braving the force of a Delphi winter, kind of cold. His digits shake as though he’s just come in from outside. He uses his left hand to hold his right down, squeezing just hard enough to make the energon lines in his wrist throb.

To his surprise, First Aid sticks around. He’s usually not far behind Ambulon when Pharma brings out his bark. Tonight, he gathers his wits about him and plants himself into an empty seat.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, sir.”

Pharma stretches his arm out, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the side of his desk to distract himself. “You didn’t offend me. Just think before you speak.”

“Of course. I only have the sparkling’s best interests at spark. That’s why I asked.”

“Well, if you want my expert opinion,” he pitches his voice as he talks, “I don’t see it becoming a problem. Ununtrium is bonded to the endoskeleton. We would have seen evidence of it in its CNA long before now.”

“And what about the merge itself?”

“What about it?”

“Do you think there will be any lasting consequences?”

Pharma vents loudly. “I don’t know,” he says, words thinned out by his denta. “I’m not familiar with its impact on development. We don’t have injury context either. So, we should continue to be cautious and adapt to its needs as we find out what they are. Anything else is a waste of energy and resources.”

“Okay.”

He points a finger at First Aid. “I know it goes without saying, but I’m counting on your discretion here. If the sparkling  _ was _ unintended, and no one but us knows about it, then we have a responsibility to make sure no one else comes looking. Understood?”

First Aid nods.

Satisfied, Pharma stretches back in his chair. The sore feeling in his wrist persists, but it’s not like it’s a new sensation for him. Worry has inflamed his nervous system and he doesn’t have to pick his feedback report for details to know that it’s made him more sensitive to his surroundings. 

Dealing with High Command has worn him out; having to parcel out information at a pace that isn’t his own leaves more to be desired. They care enough to require frequent updates about its condition but not enough to take it out of his care, citing his long list of qualifications and achievements as the reason why it’s, quote, “safe for now.”

_ Safe for now. _ He wants to pluck out their optics for having the guts to say it to his face. Because condemning them to their fate just isn’t enough; why not add a child to the body count too? A child they can’t take care of, no less.

He’s worked his way through the ‘gifts’ sent from other medical outposts; supplies that fill the gaps in his laboratory furniture and tools. They finally have a working incubator in their employ, meaning First Aid doesn’t have to swaddle the thing in thermal blankets just to keep its internal temperature at optimal levels. It helps, but the lack of medical equipment is nuts and bolts compared to the actual problem: that being that there is almost no member of staff on his payroll that knows what they’re doing.

(Not that he would be able to enlist the help of the other paramedics, being neck-deep in confidentiality agreements as the Medical Board scrambles to work out the best course of action.)

He knows one thing, and that’s that Delphi should not be the sparkling’s home. It was supposed to be a temporary blip on its timeline, now made the centre of operations. Already, he can see the sparkling’s underdeveloped heating systems have adapted to the colder environment. Revelations like that make it hard to justify moving it. A lot of other things could go wrong if they did, including the disturbance of its internal chronometre--which has since adjusted its recharge cycle to suit the Messatine’s short days--and mood sensors.

He’s been put in charge of it; yet, he has no personal care for the thing beyond ensuring its survival. First Aid is the one who volunteered to recharge in the same room as the thing so that he could attend to its every whim. Albeit, it sounded less like something he was committed to and more of an obligation to his duty as a practitioner. It doesn’t matter. First Aid knows enough to make himself useful, which keeps Pharma’s interactions to a minimum. The only time he does see it is for its once a day checkup, when he compares his observations to what’s on file. 

The sparkling always manages to be remarkable in some way: from its premature and unexpected birth to its active spark signature. The latter they tried to use to rouse Fortress Maximus from his coma, to no success. He remembers part of him being relieved. In a perfect world, the carrier would be conscious and there to provide the care it needed to grow. However, to assume that would happen, even if Maximus was awake, would be ignorant at best. 

He couldn’t offer any words of encouragement that would meet their mark, but he placed a hand down on Fortress Maximus’ open chest plates after First Aid had taken the crying sparkling back to its ward. It was supposed to be an apology: for both then and now. For the horror he faced on Garrus-9 that followed him to Delphi, and will be there for long after he’s gone.

Speaking of horrors:

Weary after a long day of repairs, the last place he wants to be is in the pediatric ward. He uploads the log of physical inspections that First Aid left behind and skims it as he’s submerged in darkness. As usual, it’s a barren place. Barren, except for the single incubator, which twinkles with gold colouring, indicating warmth. He can see the sparkling’s vague shape inside.

Its base colour and shape bear no resemblance to Tarn but it may as well be another form of torture to inflict on him; a new weapon for the Decepticon cause. He can’t even begin to imagine what the disclosure of this young one’s existence would do to a maniac like Tarn. It’s evidence of treason and reminiscent of the stain on their purple insignias. And since the sire is not here, the child inherits the crime. As for Pharma, half of the punishment will be his, because he did not play the role of informant.

It poses a very real threat to everyone’s operation. If only High Command wouldn’t be so stubborn and would  _ listen _ to his recommendations. If only he wasn’t put in a position to clean up everyone else’s messes,  _ again. _ If only he was one of the field medics, being redeployed in pairs to other planets where there’s an actual sense of purpose to the work they’re doing. Delphi’s skeleton crew shows more bones by the day.

The sparkling doesn’t know about the predicament that it’s put him in, nor does it care. It lets go of its knee and stretches out. On its back, freedom of movement is compromised. It’s able to spread its fingers and yawn, but not much else.

Now alert, it makes an unintelligible sound as he nears. Pharma ignores it and types his personal code in, resetting the incubator’s cycle. The hatch opens automatically. Warmth blossoms over his sensory net. 

Sensing the abrupt change in temperature, the sparkling weeps. Its vocalizer has yet to develop to completion, so all it can produce are scratchy cries and whimpers, the likes of which shred his audio receptors. He hastens to pick it up and complete his scan. 

Practices that once came easy to him--supporting its head and curling the palms of his hands to avoid crushing its soon-to-be-treads--are now shaky with inexperience. He’s seen and handled sparklings before, but not under circumstances this dire. And never had there been such a prolonged time gap between patient cases.

It takes him a second to maneuver the sparkling into a comfortable position. All the while, it leeches energy from his field. A grown mech would know to do so in waves, not use pricks that latch onto him with tiny mandibles. But the baby is uncultured. It’s so desperate to be touched, moving as close as it can to him. It’s tiny hands beat on his chest plating, wanting him to bare his spark.

Pharma ignores it and continues his work. His internal diagnostics come back clear and a quick plug into its systems show the rapid development of its protoform and inner wiring. It’s not enough to give it a clean bill of health, but it at least chases away the worst of his suspicions. Somehow, the tiny spark has remained strong enough to support a frame of its size. That doesn’t mean there won’t come complications later, but it means he can leave it to naturally develop its firewalls for the time being.

He finishes up his observations, weighs it, then prepares to initiate stasis. However, as he nears the incubation pod and kneels down to place it back inside, its cries come louder. Pharma’s medical protocols identify a patient in distress and urge him to slow down and assess the problem. He tries to dismiss the warnings in his HUD manually, only to find himself outnumbered.

Instead of exacerbating the problem, he opts to hold the sparkling until it calms down. He raises his base operating temperature and pushes air out of his vents, hoping the ambient noise will aid the steady decline into recharge. 

The sparkling does recline into his arms at the sound but its optics remain as sharp as ever. Big, bright, and red: a colour he holds nothing but contempt for.

“Why do you want me?” he whispers. No visible response comes.

Trying to place it down again yields the same results. He tries to not voice his displeasure--though the sparkling likely picks up on it in his field and meets him half-way with questioning pushes and prods--and begins to walk the room’s perimeter. The feeling emulates what it was like to move with its carrier as two interlinking sparks, and as such helps ease its tormented mind.

It feeds back the energy he gives it, emanating warmth and comfort. Much like the reassurance it would give to its anxious and tired carrier, it has a magnetic quality to it that he finds it hard to close himself off from. There’s that unconditional trust, braided in with the kinetic force. It’s vast and unconscionable and also so homely. It makes him feel young once more.

They reciprocate that calm energy, long past the time he would have retired to his quarters for rest. The ache and pains in his feet from the long day’s work do catch up to him, but he solves the problem by drawing a chair up, careful to not jostle the young spark awake as he seats himself and leans back. 

He’s precariously balancing on the border of discomfort and relaxation. The flow of energon in his body seems to still at the lack of movement on his part. He tries not to power down but it’s a losing fight. He’s in no short supply of solid, concentrated love and it's making him woozy.

Old memories come flooding back. He remembers his posting in Durax and visiting the Hospital for Protoforms early into his career. Being here, with this child, brings those days back into focus. As he searches for files in his internal database, he tries to copy the relaxed posture he remembers seeing the nurses have.

The files are summary and long, tinged with age and with more than a few holes. He tries to hold onto those better times and walk in the frame of his past self. There’s a wealth of information that’s been encrypted by time; memories he feels he could just get to, if he stayed a while longer.

But with all of that, he also remembers going under so that he could get the clamps, just as he remembers waking up with his whole upper half feeling compressed. The tight feeling spreads to his present self, reminding him of the invasive hardware seated right at his core. He keeps rolling his shoulders back to relieve it, to no avail. It feels like someone’s jammed a wrench in his gears.

It’s hard to put the child down--especially once it's deep into its cycle--but he needs to find relief before his spark bursts out of his chest. The protective urge to see it safe rises up to meet him, no doubt activated by the close contact. It teeths at him as he deposits the sparkling back inside its rightful home. It refuses to be ignored. Once dormant coding comes to life with a frightening power and he can’t counter it with anything but his own fear.

It’s almost shameful how fast he flees the room after, now wide awake and empty inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references a past act of sexual assault that resulted in the conception of a child. Though the child was not the intended product of the spark merge, this act is understood by all characters to be despicable and horrid. The story does not go into detail about it. The relationship between Fortress Maximus and the sire is not romanticized in any way, shape, or form and the latter is not named.
> 
> Let me know if any additional tags are needed!


	3. Ambulon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been such a pleasure reading your comments so far! From the bottom of my heart: thank you. I'm considering adding two additional chapters because of the interest!

A typical morning on Delphi would see Pharma or First Aid up early for routine checks on the sparkling, leaving Ambulon free to process lab reports and medical imagery or otherwise supervise the ward and the junior paramedics that were put to work on it. It’s the work he knows best; the work he enjoys doing. “Enjoying” being a term he uses liberally.

And no: it’s not because of a lack of concern on his part for the young spark. When it comes down to who’s the best physician for the job, the length of First Aid’s compassion more than makes up for the gaps in his clinical practice. He’s made it his mission to provide the best care that he can. Pharma is just as hard to read as ever but has a list of qualifications that could chase more than two-thirds of the universe’s medical practitioners out of the conversation. That, and in the past week he’s taken a new interest in the thing that opposes the cold shoulder he was giving it in the beginning.

Today, however, the daily checkup falls on him; Pharma had an emergency surgery scheduled the night prior and First Aid has taken a personal day. He sets out on the heel of an overtime shift, taking small sips of fuel to satisfy the ache in his tanks as he reviews Pharma’s written procedure document. His internal database clears any of Pharma’s long-winded explanations and the jargon within them, and the rest is straightforward. It shouldn’t take longer than five minutes.

He stares blankly ahead as he keys in his code to the pediatric ward, now an automatic and redundant process. The door obeys with a swish. With his admission to the room comes a plume of heat that licks up his frame. It beckons him inward.

He activates the overhead lights and watches as the yellowed fluorescent light seeps into the room’s corners, revealing the cracks that budget cuts couldn’t repair. One of the broken light fixtures--which comes to life with an occasional flicker--reveals the unused slabs stacked up against the far wall. They join the heaps of outdated medical equipment that’s lying around as evidence of Delphi’s growing obsoletion.

Then, as if testament to the contrary, the incubator sits in the open, centring the room. It runs on the same generator that powers the facility and as such, looks oddly dim. But the irregularities of its design and the cargo that’s inside it add more than just weight to the room. Perhaps this was what Pharma was talking about when he mentioned the facility harbouring a new life. At the time, he’d only read into the literal definition.

Those thoughts pull to a close as he walks forward, his spark now thrumming with suspicion when he can’t spot the child’s fuzzy outline from a distance. Coming closer gives him a better visual, enough to confirm that no, the sparkling is not there. In fact, the incubator’s log shows that it’s been empty for over half-an-hour, far longer than a simple checkup would take. 

It takes a second to process what he’s seeing and another for him to bound from the spot. He almost slams sideways into the wall, emerging before the doors have finished opening. Using the momentum to propel himself forward, he does a hard turn on his heel and jumps into a sprint. 

The thoughts in his head begin to jumble and grow limbs. Did someone kidnap it? Who would know? Did word get out? How did word get out? Will _he_ be the one to shoulder the blame, for not being more observant? What will Pharma think?

Pharma.

He pumps his legs faster, not stopping until he’s at the entrance of Pharma’s office. A low hum from inside tells him that his boss is online, if at low-functioning power. In an emergency like this, he has no care for the standard procedure and overrides the door control to let himself in.

The small but panoramic office feels bigger with the amount of light being let in. He can see his boss standing by the long window, his white plating made shiny by the sun’s rays.

He rushes to get the words out. “Pharma! I’m sorry but it’s urgent--”

Pharma turns around. His face is pinched, his mouth forming an upset line.

In his arms: the sparkling. It’s cooing at him. 

“Keep your voice down,” Pharma whisper-shouts. “What is it?”

Ambulon tries to catch his breath. “You--you have it.”

“Yes,” Pharma says. “I left a memo at the door. Did you not read the memo?” Before Ambulon can answer, he laughs to himself. “Of course not. Why do I expect my staff to perform even the simplest of tasks? It’s like I’m setting myself up for failure.”

Pharma turns back to the bare window. “Maybe _he’s_ the one who needs babysitting, wouldn’t you say?” he murmurs.

Pharma is angling his arms to give the sparkling a view of the outside world. Snow flits by, lit up by the sun’s beams as it rises beyond the mountains in the distance. The sparkling, of course, doesn’t care. It’s far more entertained by the sight of Pharma’s wings. It’s stubby little arms reach up and Pharma indulges it by casing them in. They’re still too far to be grabbed but close enough to give the illusion of being there.

Now that he’s not overwhelmed by the panting of his own vents, he can hear Pharma singing softly to himself. It’s a tune that Ambulon does not recognize: simple, but polished until it shines with emotion. The sparkling has nothing to exchange but a few babbles that, if pitched just one octave higher, would make it sound as though it were singing along. Maybe it thinks it is. 

And Pharma, absolute, cold, and precise Pharma, does not falter when his art is marred with the unwanted sound. He continues and lets it talk in circles, eventually calming to a few select noises it makes when the tempo slows to a crawl. Sounds of encouragement, maybe.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. Here, in Pharma’s office, a place Ambulon could only picture with dread before now. The dissonance makes him doubt what he’s seeing, even as it so plainly plays out before him. He could never imagine Pharma being so kind. Now that the evidence is here, he’s almost inclined to ignore it.

But. He has work to do. That overcomes any feelings he has for them both. It gives him the courage to step into their inner circle, where his presence is unwanted.

“So why’s it with you?” he asks.

“He had a bad recharge cycle. I wanted to ensure he got a few hours of good rest.”

Nevermind the fact that the sparkling is currently _not_ in recharge. The sparkling is very much awake and enjoying said fact. If Pharma’s lyrics are supposed to be lullabies, then a song change might be in order.

And he could tell Pharma that, but what would it accomplish? It would turn Pharma mean again. Ambulon would lose this armistice to the boss that’s been the bane of his existence here on Delphi.

So, he approaches the two on light feet. “Alright. I just need to take its core temperature and spark rate and then I’ll leave you be.”

No affirmation comes. He dares to come closer, until they’re standing side by side. Pharma isn’t _just_ warm: he’s erupting with heat. His spark must be frying in its casing.

Ambulon taps at his arm. The sparkling pops out of its stupor with a burst of static. It gets Pharma’s attention as well.

Ambulon flips the scanner on his arm open. “May I?” He points at the child.

He expects the wary look to cloud Pharma’s optics; hence, the appearance of it does not faze him. But when Pharma opens his arms to let Ambulon come closer, it’s more than just a show of trust. Ambulon is there, within that very definition of personal space, touching Pharma’s patient, and being welcomed to do so.

Pharma is close enough to watch the miniature spark monitor as it jumps to the tune of its palpitations. No abnormalities show, which he makes note of in his observation log. A scan of its internals comes next, during which he waits for Pharma to comment on how long the process takes or where he could be more efficient. It never comes. He’s not the object of Pharma’s regard here; that would be the sparkling who’s watching Ambulon’s hand hover close by.

It swipes up, trying to knock his hand away. It’s uncoordinated movements make it miss more than once, though on a third attempt it’s able to catch his thumb just as he’s yanking his arm back. It makes a small, but triumphant noise as its fingers wrap around it and squeeze. The motion is so small that Ambulon’s sensory net barely registers it.

Ambulon laughs. So does Pharma. It’s not one of those callous laughs that make him shrink inward, usually accompanied by some scathing comment. It lifts him. He can’t stop looking up to measure the temperature of Pharma’s stare. 

Pharma looks down at the sparkling like it’s precious. It’s some variant of a love he didn’t know existed. More than that, it’s true. Pharma wears no mask for this one. The fact that Ambulon is watching them now is a privilege he’s not sure he’s earned.

A question pops into his mind. He mulls it over, unsure if he should say it. Pharma looks like he wouldn’t mind, but he doesn’t want to push his luck either. And yet, it would clarify so much.

“Did you ever have sparklings of your own?” he blurts out.

Pharma rears back. “Primus, no.” The lash of his field makes Ambulon step back.

“Sorry,” he replies. “It’s just--you look really comfortable with it.” 

More than comfortable, actually. Pharma has somehow worked out a position that lets him hold the sparkling on the flat panes of his arm plating--much easier said than done. The sparkling has sunk into Pharma’s embrace. Both of its tiny legs kick out, supported by Pharma’s elbow joint.

Pharma looks down at his occupied arms. “No, I never did. Couldn’t. My career was too important.”

Ambulon nods, out of a lack of things to say. He sees the sparkling eyeing him, optics brightening as it traces his jagged lines and commits them to memory. Its operating systems look a bit shaky--mainly the kick of its engine and its optical systems unable to commit to a good aperture so it can relay its visual feed properly--but seeing Pharma’s relaxed posture puts him at ease. Those may just be growing pains. He’s seen patients do the same thing with their optics as they reconcile with themselves after stasis.

He’s not quite sure what to do next. The best course of action would be to return the sparkling to its chamber, at the risk of contracting Pharma’s temper. He could leave them alone together and give himself nothing to do for the next twenty minutes as he tries to piece together what could have inspired this complete workaround in Pharma’s mind, but that’s just as much a waste of his time. He’s at a loss, staring at the two bonding like they’re a holovid he’s distracting himself from work with.

“It--he,” he corrects himself to match the more personable pronouns Pharma is using, “really likes you.”

It feels like the right thing to say. Pharma’s face warms.

“Yes. Before, I was neglecting to give him the physical contact he needed. I don’t want him to grow up emotionally disconnected from other Cybertronians.”

It’s not like Pharma to admit his mistakes. It feels like the permission he needs to be a bit more casual. 

“He looks a lot more alert than he did a week ago.” Ambulon nods to himself. “Should First Aid and I initiate more contact when we’re taking readings?”

“Just holding him is fine. I don’t want to confuse him with too many different energy signatures.”

“Understood.”

Ambulon tries to take his finger back from its weak grip, but it remains intent on keeping him there, uncomfortably close to Pharma. He tips his head back to look up at him, hoping that Pharma can find it in him to take all of this in with a side of good humour.

Fortunately, he finds no evidence to suggest the contrary on his boss’ face, which is a good first step. He watches as Pharma uses his index finger to sever the connection, giving it to the sparkling to hold instead. Though it takes it, its face is wobbly. It emotes a small whine as Ambulon steps back. 

Pharma shushes it, but once it’s found its voice it cries out louder. Though it no longer sounds like a bot scraping the paint off its plating on some wall, it’s not much of an improvement either. It’s still enough to make his audio receptors bleed.

Pharma is far more affected than he is. Its wails make him fold in, his leg thrusters beginning to murmur as they do when he’s about to shout at them. Right in front of him, he watches Pharma’s manicured appearance fall apart.

He thrusts his arms out to Ambulon. “Take him for a minute, please.” Just finding words seems to exert effort. 

Ambulon follows through and seats it in the cradle of his two arms. He quickly finds that the act of holding such a tiny shape requires more skill than he thought. His uncomfortable handling makes the child sob louder, reaching out for its previous holder. 

“Are you okay?” asks Ambulon, as he watches Pharma mash his hand into himself.

“I think my spark is reacting to him. It’s pushing up--” He kneads his palm into his chest, engages and then disengages the locks keeping his plating closed.

The child angles its body, receptive to the sound of Pharma’s voice and the comfort it must bring. With every inch of power it possesses--which is very little--it tries to squirm out of his hold. He regrets the force he must use to prevent that from happening, knowing it is the opposite of Pharma’s gentle touch but also knowing he must, out of necessity.

Pharma waits a minute to correct himself back into perfect posture. Once successful, he reaches out once more. It’s hard to imagine that he’s already recovered from the pain but the look on his face is desperate.

Ambulon gives the child back without hesitation. Their hands brush during the transfer, which would normally get him a rancid look and the start of a lecture on respecting personal space. This time, Pharma doesn’t seem to care. On the contrary, Ambulon is too busy wondering when it became acceptable for him to come into close contact with his boss that he hardly notices the sparkling has stopped crying. 

He points at Pharma’s chest. “Does pressing your hand in like that help?”

“It lets me adjust the positioning, why?” 

“I was just curious if it worked. In case I have to do it.”

“You don’t have clamps.”

It doesn’t _sound_ accusatory but puts him on edge just the same. The blatant reminder of his incompletion, what would once make him back away, now makes him desire to fill in the holes left behind by the war. What he wouldn’t give to feel his spark desire to be close to another, to remind him that he’s just as alive as his forged brothers.

He speaks the burning question at his lips into being. “Were they painful to get?” he asks. “The clamps.” Only once it’s said does he realize how much it feels like a diversion.

“They were…” Pharma trails off. A heavy look enters his optics. “Well, I didn’t mind at the time. I know some were torn up about it, but it was compulsory. After a while, you just learned to deal with it.”

Ambulon’s optics slit. “Sounds invasive.” On cue, images of cramped laboratories and many purple bodies becoming one edge into his vision. With impatience, he chases them away. He has no desire to share them with Pharma, not even to inspire empathy from him.

“The Senate’s reasoning at the time was sound. No one wanted to put the life of a sparkling in danger.”

“But you probably wanted a child at some point, yeah?”

Pharma looks down at the sparkling. He resumes the subtle back-and-forth of his arms. “Sure. Carrying is supposed to be a very intimate and wonderful experience.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t think MTOs can carry.”

Pharma hums. “Definitely not.” After a brief second, he looks up. “You could plausibly spark someone up, though.”

“I’d need a partner to do that first.”

Unsaid laughter lights up Pharma’s optics. “Good luck with that.”

He smiles. “Yeah, imagine. Finally, someone to share the sad existence of my alt-mode with.” He bolsters the uptake in his voice, meant to spark Pharma’s smile with a bit of self-deprecating humour. 

Pharma’s face doesn’t budge. “It would get your original alt-mode. Alterations don’t transfer in genetic coding.”

Ambulon’s mouth hangs for a second as he works up a reply. “Oh.”

“Your partner would also have to have flier coding. Flight frames are recessive you know,” he says, with no emotion. He’s looking down at the child as he speaks.

“Thanks?”

More concerning than the tangent Pharma is walking himself into is the truth that he knows about Ambulon’s pre-gestalt form--at least enough to make a passing reference to it. He always thought that Pharma didn’t have the time or care to look into it. But he also thought that Pharma didn’t have the capacity to care for a child; yet, here he is, lost in thought once more as he watches it stretch out. It’s like he’s swapped his understanding of object permanence with the sparkling and completely forgotten that his employee is still standing there, waiting for confirmation.

Over the years, Ambulon’s compiled many a word to describe Pharma with. Absent-minded had never come to mind until now. 

It doesn’t feel like he’ll be able to resuscitate the conversation again. Now would be the right time to take his leave, before he draws it out any more than it needs to be. As far as he’s concerned, it’s Pharma throwing him a lifeline. He’d be stupid not to take it.

He turns toward the door, choosing not to look back as he asks, “are you fine to take it back to the incubator?” 

“Hm? Oh. Yes, of course.” Pharma says something else, but it’s too faint to hear.

“I’ll uh, check on the emergency ward then.”

No response. Ambulon resumes the walk out. He has more questions than can be answered and they eat at his mind like a swarm of scraplets. He swallows them back and sets a course for the ward, intent on putting as much distance between himself and Pharma as possible before he opens his mouth again and ruins it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since JRo confirmed Ambulon was originally a medevac helicopter, my life hasn’t been the same. Felt the need to reference it here!  
> No major warnings for this chapter, beyond the mention of forced contraceptive use for the greater population during the war. It also touches on the sterilization of MTO soldiers. Neither of these topics are explored with much detail. 
> 
> Loosely inspired by this one [scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0nxsrewyqM0) from the Handmaid’s Tale. Needless to say, Delphi doesn't have a lot of love in it, so Pharma's holding onto what he can find with both hands.


	4. First Aid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! First off: as always, I'm loving the comments and feedback I'm getting. Thank you so much! 
> 
> Second, originally, the story ended here and was meant to loosely intermingle with canon. Now it's going to be actively diverging canon. The next chapters might be a bit slow to update, but hopefully I'll be able to work out a cohesive plot soon. This one gets the unfortunate burden of exposition. Apologies for that; I didn't have the time to write events as they played out.

News of the war’s end does not reach Delphi. 

New transfers continue to arrive under the shelter of the facility and the mechs in its employ. It’s as if the nucleon the miners bring in is still being used for ammunition on the front lines. Had the frequency of the Decepticon raids not declined when they did, First Aid could have been persuaded to think that Megatron’s surrender was some elaborate prank, aired at Pharma’s discretion.

But what’s not funny is watching the last of the junior paramedics board transporters, destination: mainland Cybertron. The only meaningful change and it doesn’t involve him, because his name doesn’t make the roster. His promotion to unofficial pediatrician--something that was supposed to redeem him and his efforts--comes back to bite him. He’s too valuable to be sent away. It’s either that or they don’t want him back, which is worse. So he chooses to believe what shines the best light on him, and tries not to think too much about it. Which is hard, because the long shifts give him _lots_ of time to think with.

He would probably be angrier, if not for the very thing they’re hiding amid the snow. 

The young spark had no right growing into something more than a statistic to file away, but there’s no going back now. He can’t help but fall in love with the way it sticks its arms out when it desires to be picked up or how it bungles the very act of speaking when it spits out static in lieu of words. It’s cute and sweet and truly the most dearest thing, which is more than can be said for most bots around these parts.

He loves it, yet he also cares for it enough to wonder why a patient transfer to a mainland facility hasn’t been arranged. What’s left for it here, in a place where its only source of company comes from the medical practitioners that still refer to it by its serial code? Of course, there’s a reason for that; there’s a reason for everything. Becoming attached is dangerous. Even something as simple as a name, once imposed on it, would infer a relationship of sorts. Just him fueling in the same room as the thing is a violation of protocol.

At least he’s nowhere near as bad as Pharma. 

Under normal circumstances, he would congratulate someone who takes on the role of guardian angel--as Pharma has. But it’s not just that. He spends all of his time with the thing, even when it cuts into his recharge hours. He can’t put it down; can barely stop thinking about it long enough to dedicate the same level of care to his job as he used to.

First Aid tells himself that really, he shouldn’t bear so much judgement. He remembers having to undergo counselling after seeing the warden upon arrival, amputated and punished for his loyalty to the Autobot cause. In the end, it was Pharma who hung in there, shouldering the most and seeing the worst. First Aid can’t necessarily fault him for latching onto the one good thing around here to self-medicate, even if it’s as unhealthy a coping mechanism as they come. 

He understands. Delphi is lonely. When you’re only one of three qualified staff members, a day off means you remain in your room, watching your chronometer tick down the hours until you’re back on the ward. There’s no visiting other planets nor enjoying the occasional medical conference. In a similar predicament himself, First Aid has tried funneling his energy into a new side project: an exploration in spark resuscitation. Inspired by their patient, he purchases and ploughs through related material. Moreover, he invests an abundance of his measly income in spark scanners and casing connectors to experiment with. 

As far as hobbies go, it keeps him busy. If he could somehow bring Fortress Maximus back to consciousness, he would be doing the sparkling the greatest service he could. Despite what Pharma says about him being in an eternal coma, he can’t delete the memory of the monitors undergoing a minor lapse in the presence of the young spark, as if leeching the very force that kept it burning bright. Maybe if Pharma spent as much time working on experimental treatment as he did overindulging the child with his presence, they could by now have performed one of the medical miracles the head doctor became famous for.

He likes to think maybe it’s his turn to carry the torch--to continue where Pharma left off. He feels pretty good about his current progress. Practice runs have all proven useful. Now, it’s just a matter of getting the added clearance to do something with it.

It’s harder said than done. Delphi’s CMO has been largely avoidant of Fortress Maximus since the restoration of his frame, but he does perform weekly checks to ensure that the exposed metal has not developed rust, among other concerns about his recovery (said term used _very_ loosely). No talk about further treatment graces the room, afraid of drawing Pharma’s temper and the overtime shifts it’s become synonymous with. 

However, it’s also the only opportunity he has to work with.

First Aid rehearses the lines in his head, using the adjacent wall in his suite for practice to get the tone right. He doesn’t want to sound condescending. He wants to wrap the suggestion in Pharma’s words, to make it appear as though it’s his idea. He’d get nothing done around here if he didn’t master the art of infiltrating Pharma’s advice with his own suggestions and this is no exception to that. 

The day of, he proceeds as normal. He does not complain when Pharma puts him on decontamination and administers the pressurized gas to the joints and pivots on Fortress Maximus’ body. Ambulon takes his place by Pharma’s side, updating the patient log with observations and any points of concern to keep tabs on. The three of them have it down to a science, which stops the process from being any more time-consumptive than it needs to. Pharma’s voice is the only one that graces the operating theatre.

All the while, First Aid watches the head doctor’s hands work. He pretends to fascinate himself with Pharma’s technique so that his boss does not suspect he has other things on his mind: mainly, if there’s an opening he could encroach on. The more natural he makes himself sound, the more it would appear his thought is spontaneous. It would chase away any suspicions that this is all premeditated--something Pharma would perceive as a threat.

Pharma presses his fingers into a collection of locks on Fortress Maximus’ waist. “His hinge pins could use some lubricant. His rust inhibitor systems aren’t online to repel the room’s moisture.”

“Yes, sir,” answers Ambulon. “Would you prefer we use silicon or graphite?”

“Graphite. I don’t want to have to worry about cleaning up the residue later.”

Ambulon commits it to his notes. Pharma’s hands move up. They skirt over the expanse of blue plating, toward the white peninsula where his Autobot badge rests.

Into Pharma’s touch enters a sense of caution. His hand hovers on top of the seam that splits the chest in two. The sensors they have attached to the surface relay information to the monitors, depicting the rate of his spark’s pulses. It reacts to Pharma’s hands with a series of skips.

“No changes to respiration or resting spark rate,” Pharma says. He only has eyes for the body that’s beneath him, not the jump of the electrical signals from above. “First Aid, I want you to keep assessing the development of any rust spots. Otherwise, finish up here and move back to the ward.” His hardwired tools disappear inside of his wrist with a small _sliiick_ sound.

Sensing that the window of opportunity is closing, First Aid lets his impulsivity guide him. “Have we really tried everything we could to wake him up?” he says, with emphasis in all the wrong places. The skepticism in his voice is so abundant that it seeps over the edges.

Pharma side-eyes him with obvious disinterest. Though it’s not encouraging, there’s nothing to suggest that he’s rubbed him the wrong way, which compels First Aid to keep going.

“We tried spark signalling once, but we never tried the next step.” He summons the courage with both of his fists clenched. “Jumpstarting. Think about it: they share the same spark type. If we match its energy contribution, we could give Fortress Maximus enough operating power to ride the ignition and wake up. I know you’ve thought about this.”

He can tell Pharma was ignoring him at the time of the suggestion by how long it takes for him to reply. As he comes to a full understanding of what First Aid said, a flash of anger pulls down his expression.

Pharma’s EM field flares. It pushes First Aid back with its intensity. “No.”

“No?”

“It’s far too dangerous.”

“Dangerous for who?” he says, shotgunning the last of his courage.

“The newspark who’s too weak to stand, let alone power another mechanism.”

“But we would be supporting it the entire time! The voltage would be too low to cause any harm that we couldn’t counteract.”

“I said no.”

His whole body lurches forward to meet Pharma halfway. “Why not? It’s the only thing we haven’t tried yet.” His words coast on a wave of anger that turns their edges sharp. “Are you afraid it won’t work? Are you afraid it _will_ work?” 

All three of them stop dead. Pharma is the first to respond, his armour expanding with heat until he’s grown two sizes. He blots out the light from above with the length of his wings and the blocky shape of the vents they’re attached to.

“Say one more word and I’ll write you up for insubordination.” The whirr of his turbine overlaps his words. The shadows cast by his chevron don his optics with a mask. Up close, his lenses look small and beady. 

Pharma leans in: all teeth and the guarantee of a threat. “Do I make myself clear?”

First Aid looks at Ambulon for support, only to find the ward manager looking down at the log in his hands, intent on avoiding the confrontation. Pharma has yet to look away, holding First Aid captive until he coughs up a reply. It’s not as though the jet relishes in his torment; beneath the tightened plating and curled lip is an insecurity First Aid hadn’t noticed until now. 

He has no other projectiles to launch at Pharma, so any upcoming words die in his throat before they are spoken. He looks down, defers to Pharma’s authority, and doesn’t dare move from his spot until he hears his boss’ hydraulics systems disengage. 

“Yes, sir.” His shoulders cant downwards. He tries to blend into the many screens and apparatus mounted on the walls, as to avoid the line of fire.

First Aid waits for as long as it takes for Pharma to reattach Fortress Maximus’ medical ports and stomp out of the room before he ex-vents. He’s shaken up, but it’s not like he didn’t plan for this outcome. The embarrassment is nothing compared to the thought of unemployment, which makes his internal folds clench up. He should be counting his blessings. He came _this_ close to the razor-thin wire.

No relief rises to meet him. Instead of feeling empty, like he normally would after depositing his anger during a confrontation, he finds his heated feelings incubating at the bottom of his fuel tank. The confrontation didn’t come close to satisfying the urge to shove his way into Pharma’s space and make him see how selfish he’s being.

Because had it been any other day on the ward, and had the sparkling not been theirs to rear, he might have believed Pharma got angry because First Aid’s suggestions were not substantiated by his own research and he, therefore, would not get credit. Now that he’s seen that empty look that Pharma’s wears around Fortress Maximus, he’s starting to think there’s more than just one threat Pharma’s trying to shoot down.

How do you approach someone with the truth that a child will never be theirs? How do you tell them you can’t give it what it needs without them becoming defensive? Is what’s best going to justify the pain he’s going to be put through?

He wants to say he resents Ambulon for leaving him hung out to dry but truth be told, he needs his cooperation now more than ever. He gets why it would be intimidating for him to take a stand in the theatre. It would be asking him to put everything on the line for something he has no context for. But that can easily be fixed.

Once Ambulon’s done completing his updates--and tried to chase First Aid away, to no success--it’s as simple as shoving him into an abandoned wing under the pretence of it being medically-related. Not that he’s fooling anyone with the way he keeps looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Pharma. He’s armed with so much anger that he practically bristles.

First Aid double checks the door, aware that Ambulon’s thinning patience won’t give him much time to explain. “Pharma’s getting too attached.”

“Let him. He knows what he’s doing.”

First Aid waits for Ambulon’s dry sarcasm to bleed through and implicate him. Only once the ensuing silence becomes awkward does First Aid see the problem.

“What’s the matter with you? I know you’re not that stupid,” he says.

Ambulon laughs humorlessly. “But what can we do? Seriously.”

“Tell High Command! They’ve wanted custody of the sparkling for a long time now and it’s only on Pharma’s authority that we still have it in the first place. If we warn them, they might do something.”

Ambulon’s field becomes spastic with panic. 

“What about us, First Aid?” He simmers down to a whisper. “What happens to us? Meddling in Pharma’s affairs is the quickest way to make our lives miserable.”

“There’s more than just our lives at stake here.”

“And I understand that, but the sparkling’s life is not in danger. Quite the opposite, really. There are worse mechs than Pharma out there to play the role of carrier.”

“But it’s not his baby.”

“And I’m not Pharma’s keeper. Why interfere?” His arm flies out. “What will it accomplish?” 

He compels his argument with nothing but a simple shake of his head. It’s insulting: it makes First Aid feel like he’s the petulant child who’s doing this to satisfy his own ego. 

The audacity of the invisible claim makes him tense up. He doesn’t even get the pleasure of the last word, as Ambulon ends the discussion by walking out on him. It brings to mind the unwanted memories of his demotion and how similar it is to this: earning his superiors’ ire for _just doing his job._

Fine.

He shoulders his way out of the closet and makes his way down to the ward, mindful of the route that Ambulon took. Out of spite, he takes the long way down the stairwell to avoid bumping into him. It’s dimly lit and crowded with enough surveillance cameras around to make him nervous. He briefly meets the lens of one. The blinking light indicates that it’s on.

Would Pharma go so far as to punish them for meeting behind his back? He can only wonder. 

He tries to shake the feeling, only to find it’s persistent in its condemnation of his actions. It’s not like he’s doing this to mess with Pharma or frag, because he’s _jealous_ or something just as stupid in theory. Ambulon might think so, but that doesn’t make it true. Ambulon has flaws of his own, especially when he’s keeping safe in one of Pharma’s blindspots. But regardless of who is siding with who and for what reason, the question of custody still burns bright.

When the solution first comes to him, he’s engaging in his favourite pastime within the comforts of his suite. What starts as an absurd idea slowly morphs into something more plausible, until it’s ripened enough for him to give it a second thought.

Any outward-bound reports need to be authorized by his immediate superior first, which means he’s got slim pickings when it comes to contacting someone on the outside. Sure, there are internal frequencies but that’s a lot more suspicious. And he has no personal comms. on file that belong to people who could help him, nor understand why he’s so overworked about something that sits outside of his job description.

A secure frequency would ensure that he’s not revealing himself to Pharma before he’s ready. He could beam a signal to ships approaching the Messatine’s atmosphere, something inconspicuous that could alert its passengers of a strange phenomenon they can’t understand--

At the risk of alerting a Decepticon ship. The DJD is still at large. The child might meet their criteria and end up on the list. He couldn’t live with the guilt if it did.

He thinks harder, trying to find something unique to the Autobot cause. It would have to be beyond Decepticon comprehension; yet, capable of carrying an encrypted message. Something to communicate to them that they should come to Delphi. All he needs is someone on the outside. If he could just find a way to chain a message to someone of a higher ranking, then someone with more authority than him could look into this.

Sure, maybe he’s overreacting. Maybe _he’s_ the one that’s too attached for his own good. That thought makes his fingers rest over the keys, stopped mid-sentence. Then comes images of Pharma, with child in hand and what looks like evidence of carrier protocols running in the background, executing rogue code, and his hands push themselves into action. The only thing they have to lose now is time. 

He’s just a nurse. Maybe that’s why Pharma won’t listen to him. But maybe there’s someone out there his boss will listen to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So: playing a bit with the timeline here. The Wreckers storm G9 in 2010 and the LL takes off in 2012. I’m closing that gap by about a year to make the canon divergence happen. 
> 
> No major warnings for this chapter. Let me know if anything needs to be tagged!

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://amaltheeia.tumblr.com/)


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